Here Be Dragons
by Erroneous
Summary: At the extent of the charts of old, Martin and Louisa would find these words to mark the unknown territory beyond which explorers who fail to change course will discover only their greatest peril– or together their greatest opportunity. Although their voyage seemed lost after series six, this story begins thereafter as they navigate through unexplored territory…
1. Chapter 1: Armamentarium

**Here Be Dragons**

At the extent of the charts of old, Martin and Louisa would find these words to mark the unknown territory beyond which explorers who fail to change course will discover only their greatest peril– or together discover their greatest opportunity. Although their voyage seemed lost after series six, this story begins thereafter as they navigate through unexplored territory that prays to discover a togetherness that means more than being together.

 **Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fanfiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any kind is intended.**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Armamentarium**

 _THIS is no bloody faery-tale!_ , is the one lucid thought that penetrates the thickening fog. Hot breath gathers inside the great helm. My head grows fuzzy straining for a sensation beyond the laboured breathing.

 _Damn this mask!_ I struggle in vain against the heavy bascinet wedged tightly overhead. I relent to pivot my eyes about trying to peer through the slits of the equally implacable visor. What little I can make out is shrouded in mist and deepening shadows that reveal only faint outlines of the wood beyond. There lies a too familiar darkness concealing everything but the constant lurking dread.

There will be nowhere to flee once the devouring blackness comes for me. My heart slows to a hardening thump against the tight cuirass. I know its approach will be stealthy and cloaked in menacing silence. It always is.

It's already too late. Even now it stirs. Hungrily, it's stalking has begun. I hold my body determinedly rigid; my arms and legs immobilised– irrelevant of the plate and mail. From somewhere far away music begins, tinny at first; repeating and faltering, repeating and faltering. Order spins and sways and with it the orderliness of sense and self. I feel flesh flashing cold and moist against hard steel– diaphoresis. Drops of sweat collect beneath the thick gorget. Interoceptors take notice of an increasingly thready pulse; bradycardia too.

Vasovagal presyncope– I recognise the signs. I tense my muscles against the blackness. Mental sharpness is, as always, my only ally. If I'm not to be devoured whole, I must keep myself upright and steadfast. My hands are stiff within the bulky gauntlets. Deliberate extension and adduction of the phalanges will stave off fasciculation. They are empty. They are always empty, save for times a lancet. They bear no claymore, no spatha, no falchion, no baselard, no blade at all. 'Primum non nocere'… there can be no fighting back; that heraldic standard must stand. What there can't be, what there can never be, is a show of weakness. It feeds ravenously on weakness. Dyspnoea… must keep control. Hypocapnia soon…

It preys– like this, by watching from out there; curarizing from a distance by infusing a great without within. It makes no show of tooth or claw; no tearing or slashing, no gnawing or gnashing before it strikes. It engulfs one's whole. Now an acrid hollowness rises from the back of my throat anticipating my mortification by self-evisceration. My insides are roiling; readied for when it comes.

Fugue-like **[1]** now, I hear the music growing more emphatic. I strain hard listening for even a small voice that would call to me, beckoning me in answer so to blot out the vituperating silence. A burst of heat and I feel it burn; searing. Oh, gawd– the smell! The stench of cauterised flesh. The alarum sounds of retching. It's coming!

If but this once I could see it! To face it! I'd face anything but that dark emptiness drawing near. A last look through the thin visor reveals only blurs. Dim shapes. Occipital lobe ischemia. Focus! Kalnienk vision. It's here! Hypoxemia. If only this once… One. Last. Effort. I grasp the unyielding helms with all my might for the final futile attempt to glimpse the mortal foe. With all my strength I pull with a primal cry:

"Arghhh!"

Fresh air– fresh air rushes in soothingly against my skin. The light is brilliant. And warm. The sunlight is like nothing I've ever seen before. I stand still; unopposed and with every shroud lifted. There is nothing more menacing before me than some verdant dew-sodden trees, twittering birds, and a lively butterfly that alights amongst the shafts of light. I am safe. I am free. Suffused in light, I release the grip on the helm and bascinet and its burden falls to my side with a resounding thud.

I startle awake to an unknown calm: peaceful and comforting. My eyes strain against this new brightness, opening and closing, squinting and watering in adjustment from its profound opposite in the tulgey wood. A sweet sound floats on the air that ever so slowly conveys the realisation that I am waking to the intonations of James Henry's melodic cooing. Upstairs Louisa– my wife, sleeps, fitfully perhaps; convalescing– but home. And James– my son, has awakened and I– his father, can proffer Louisa– his mother, time for a lie in and a chance to heal.

I rise from the hard obstinate couch and slip softly upstairs to find James lying contentedly in his cot swimming his arms and legs in rhythmic strokes of delight and babbling with his tiny face alight towards mine. I whisper into his growing expression as I lift him eagerly into mine, "Come to my arms, my beamish boy," **[2]** followed by a small chortle that is shared covertly between just the two of us. **[3]**

 **to be continued… Next:** A visit to sage Aunt Ruth

* * *

 **[1] fugue[-like]-** the word is derived from both the Latin _fuga_ , meaning to flee or escape, and _fugare_ , meaning to chase, or run away to or run from. A _fugue_ is a sophisticated musical form popularised in the Baroque period and composed of two or more alternating or competing _contrapuntal_ voices (i.e. voices _chasing_ one another) that attained their archetypal perfection in the works of Johann Sebastian Bach.

A _fugue_ proceeds in three sections: the _exposition_ , _development_ , and _recapitulation_ and is connected by passages known as _episodes_. The _exposition_ begins with the first _voice_ by itself that establishes the _subject_ of the composition in anticipation of being joined by a second _voice_ in a different pitch that provides the _answer_. This pattern is repeated throughout the composition with the _subject_ and, upon the introduction of new material, the _countersubject_ in varying combinations of answers occurring in _contrapuntal_ , or counterpoint. The intertwined contrapuntal voices in alternating pitch is what endows the fugue with its power and attraction as the voices join in melodic lines developing a harmonic relationship whilst retaining their own individuality. A musical _fugue_ should not be confused with the medical condition (i.e. a _fugue_ -like state) which is a rare short-lived reversible dissociative state of self-identity brought on by severe stress or trauma where the episode itself and the original stressor are subject to amnesia.

 **[2] Come to my arms, my beamish boy-** from the children's story _by Jack Bower_ (an amalgamation comprised of stories, rhymes, and songs) written in Cornish, "Dres an Gweder-Mires", 1871, that reflects the tale of a once bold, fearless, and even garrulous young boy who all alone and armed with nothing but his vorpal incisiveness, must vanquish the most frightening of monsters that dwell deep within the most dreaded recesses of the ' _tewolgow_ '.

 **[3]** _Haemophobia_ , or the _fear of blood_ , known more fully as _blood and Blood-Injection-Injury (BII) phobia_ , is very different from other phobias. Common to all _phobias_ are feelings of a persistent irrational fear combined with an overwhelming anxiety to an object or situation often described as "the fear of fear". The physiological response to these feelings is an accelerated heart rate and an increase in blood pressure as well as others consistent with the _fight-or-flight response_. However in blood and BII phobias, that initial pathophysiology abruptly shifts to a response consisting of a sudden drop in heart rate ( _bradycardia_ ), a widening of blood vessels ( _vasodilation_ ), and a drastic decrease in blood pressure ( _hypotension_ ). This paradoxical response is unique amongst phobias and is characteristic of the _vasovagal response_ with symptoms of lightheadedness, sweating with hot or cold sensations, ringing in the ears, an uncomfortable feeling of the heart, fuzzy thoughts, confusion, a growing inability to speak, nausea, and ultimately _syncope_ (fainting)– the transient loss of consciousness. This means that the experience of individuals with haemophobia is very different, if not essentially the antithesis, to the experience of sufferers of other phobias.

What distinguishes the physiological response of haemophobia from that of other phobias is _blood flow_. The fight-or-flight response is activated by a perceived threat that directs blood flow toward major muscle groups (i.e. the arms and legs) and away from less critical systems and organs (i.e. the skin, kidneys, and digestive system) to prepare the individual to either fight or to flee. The vasovagal response is activated by a perceived threat by essentially shutting down blood flow and letting blood pool in the legs (whilst standing or sitting) by the force of gravity and draining it away from the brain. The vasovagal response with syncope attempts to restore flow by forcing the brain level with the heart at the expense of consciousness. In other words, the brain intervenes to a perceived threat to save itself and the individual by demonstrating it is not in turn a threat by fleeing consciousness (i.e. the brain's self awareness) in an imitation of death (a defensive mechanism known as _tonic immobility_ , or _thanatosis_ ).

Neurologically, the processing and conditioning of fear that principally occurs within the brain structure the _amygdala_ , is not activated for BII phobias as it is for other phobias. Neurological studies indicate that the distress of sufferers with haemophobia corresponds to a response that is more consistent with the emotion of _disgust_ rather than with the emotion of fear. Vasovagal syncope experienced in haemophobia is known as _neurally mediated syncope_ , a classification it shares with the clichéd "fainting episodes" triggered by acute emotional distress. This shared neurological response suggests that the experience of haemophobia may also relate to a sense of overwhelming emotions.

Many sufferers of _haemophobia_ can learn to avert fainting from exposure to their phobic blood trigger by heeding the onset of _prodromal_ symptoms. Deliberately tensing the large muscle groups of the legs, torso, and arms with isometric pressure or squeezing them together at the earliest onset prevents syncope by forcibly maintaining normal blood pressure and sufficient blood flow to the brain in a technique known as _applied tension_. This technique contradicts the usual treatment advice for other phobias which emphasise relaxation and loosening muscle tension when their trigger is encountered. Mastering applied tension allows for prolonging exposure of the phobic stimuli to provide sufferers with greater control over their phobia, and improving the prognosis for the psychotherapeutic treatment of the underlying phobia.

Like most phobias, haemophobia usually has a familial predisposition (a _diathesis_ that relates it to running in families, although it is likely not genetic) wherein the vicarious anxiety of a family member produces and conditions the anxiety in another member until it develops into a phobic response. The experience of BII phobias also differs from that of other phobias in that their irrational fear is not perceived as involving any actual danger to themselves or a threat to their own physical injury, harm, or survival. As Aunt Ruth accurately relates in S6E8, blood and blood-related phobias, usually originate in early childhood, a characteristic is shares with animal phobias, both of which also evoke strong emotional responses of _disgust_ and neither of which necessarily have any convincing original event of traumatic origin or physical pain.


	2. Chapter 2: Sapience

**Chapter Two: Sapience**

"SO THEN, how _is_ Louisa?" Aunt Ruth asks.

"She's stable; a full recovery is anticipated."

"Martin?" she admonishes with a minute flexing of her brow.

"She's fine. She's home. She's recuperating– for now. She was asleep when we left," I inform her less antiseptically. "I thought we'd come and tell you."

We sit quietly on the grass at Ruth's farm as James ambulates about my lap. It's a wholly uncomfortable, if undignified, position which my elderly aunt no doubt insists upon since it concedes the advantage of towering over her. How else would she have dared to suggest from this very spot, not 24 hours ago, that I somehow couldn't want to be with Louisa? Our eyes avoid one another by following James' gaze as he watches a butterfly flitting about.

"And do I understand correctly that, _you_ _yourself_ performed the procedure?" Ruth finally inquires.

"Um… apparently, actual _competent_ surgeons are so few and far between amongst Cornwall's unerring collective incompetence, that– well… yes."

"I see," her curt response is followed by more silence watching James' keen observation of the lepidopteran display. "You know Martin, the changes you must make to stay together with Louisa, won't be made from behind a surgical mask."

"I know that!" I say sharply before softening my annoyance, "I mean, right. We should go. I really just came to tell you… and to ask about that list of therapists– for Louisa."

"Louisa? You know, Martin, change can be a frightening thing," Ruth extemporises as if to no one in particular. "But I'm _not_ your doctor… And even if I was, I'm far too old and too tough to get bothered about your penchant for _projecting_ your anger. Even poor Buddy has learned that much."

"Ah, so now you're an expert on dogs too?"

"Well, he is _your_ shadow, Martin, after all," she asserts. "Or did you imagine that Buddy follows you about because he's become obsessed with you too? Oh my, _another_ case of _erotomania_? Then again, maybe you're just envious of Buddy's happy _domestication_ by not repressing his sensitive side and his learning to relate to the opposite sex by not _taming_ either his positive or negative aspects?"

"Ah, so am I to gather that your latest book is to be a ridiculous storybook of _animal fables?_ "

"Oh no, I'm rather out of my depth when it comes to _husbandry_ – animal or otherwise," she says with a dissuasive nod. "Although now that you mention it, I did happen to observe a pair of hedgehogs, just this morning from the kitchen window as I was having my tea," she says with wryly accentuated eyebrows. "There they were, making every desperate effort to huddle together for warmth to stave off the lonely morning chill. Yet every time they attempted to do so, their painful spines never failed to drive them apart again. How on earth such creatures manage to reproduce, one has to wonder." **[1]**

"How nice, a story about sapient hedgehogs," I tell her derisively. "Wouldn't that make a perfectly lovely story for James' bedtime."

"I thought so; much better than those bog-standard ursine nursery tales you favoured at such a tender age," she says tapping her finger against her chin. "As I recall, you once had a little stuffed bear that always accompanied you everywhere you went, especially at bedtime. _Hmm_?"

"Right. And then I grew up."

"No," she avers with a salutary cock of her head. "You simply learned to be afraid of bears."

"Well, what _you_ may not have learned is that when stupid, filthy bears aren't digging about and eating from rubbish, they're actually beastly carnivores which are, in fact, phylogenetically related to smelly _canids_ \- like that disgusting nuisance of yours," I state to her dismissive frown. "Or did _you_ never have to learn any _actual_ science before you called yourself, ' _Doctor_ '? _Hmm_?"

"Of course, Martin," she says fluttering her eyes in seemingly equal parts annoyance and impatience. "But as James would tell you– it was only when you _ran away_ from bears in the first place, that you ever learned to fear them." **[2]**

"What's it all got to do with bears?" I ask nonplussed.

" _Exactly_!" she states emphatically before unsubtly changing the subject. "So, am I to assume that your son is accompanying you today on your home visits?"

"No. I told you, we came to see you for that list of therapists– remember?" I answer warily. "Why?"

"Oh, nothing," she flannels, "It's just that one gets the general impression that you're busy today seeing patients, given your usual formal attire."

"No," I let my answer linger, "Or do you want me to _change_ and begin wearing ' _jorts_ ' and ' _flip-flops_ ' when I wasn't holding surgery?"

"Of course not, Martin. I just thought that maybe when you're out and about the village with your son, _socialising_ as it were, that you might prefer to wear somewhat more casual attire without the suit and tie; perhaps something less _conspicuous_? Besides, it's what _you_ want that really matters."

"Okay, I give up," I say with an exasperated sigh before reluctantly taking the bait. "What anthropomorphised bird or beast am I to be likened to now, Aunt Ruth?"

"Well, have you ever considered what animal uses its _conspicuous_ appearance as a deterrence against attack? No idea? Then what animal mimics the obvious guise of another as a defence mechanism to ward off predation? No? Then can you tell me what vulnerable prey imitates a more noxious one so as to be less approachable to potential predators? Fell beasts? Small dogs? Wee children, then?" she asks persistently, waiting in vain for the dim look on my face to dissipate. "Oh, for heaven's sake Martin, don't look at me like I'm speaking ancient greek– I'm referring to butterflies! _Aposematic_ butterflies!" **[3]**

"Oh goody, now I'm a butterfly," I remark ironically. "I wonder whether you've spent too much time alone on the farm with no more company than _chickens_ and _eggs_. Perhaps it's time to make an appointment– wouldn't you agree, _Aunt_?"

"Well, thanks for that. Although your comment about _chickens_ and _eggs_ coming together, representing both the conscious and unconscious, is really quite astute, Martin," she critiques. "What better way to resolve, what we called in the old days, a neurosis? But as for an appointment, _you_ needn't bother as long as the only thing you intend to _change_ is the subject. Wouldn't you agree, _Nephew_?"

"Umm… " my mouth languishes in mid-expostulation only to close again as James Henry turns to me agog when the butterfly lands gently upon his extended toe.

"Your son certainly is perceptive," Ruth finally says. "No doubt he's noticed that, despite our bantering, that I'm really quite fond of my nephew and care about his whole self," she pauses to watch the butterfly sun itself from its accommodating perch. "That may only seem like a daunting change– much as the butterfly here surely once did as well. **[4]** Yet the only change he must truly undergo, and you and your _science_ would know better than I, is to finally recognise and begin using the wings he's had all along." **[5]**

"Hmph..." I acquiesce to my wise and wizened aunt.

"Or so says the old city girl from London who's now inspected enough chicken and sheep sphincters to cherish for an _entire_ lifetime."

"Right."

"Well Martin, we both must get on… and I'm happy to speak with Louisa," Ruth says slowly rising to her feet. "Big wet kisses to precious James there– at least until I can slobber all over him myself, that is," she says dryly. "We'll do this all again some time, Martin… whenever you're ready."

 **to be continued… Next:** A joker tends to his herd

* * *

 **[1] The Hedgehog's Dilemma-** also known as the _Porcupine's Dilemma_ is a psychological allegory of the difficulties of intimacy in human relationships. It refers to the behaviour of hedgehogs that desperately long to become closer to one another, if only to share their body-warmth. Yet despite the close reciprocal relationship they both desire, they are constantly forced apart due to inevitably hurting one another with their sharp and painful spines that neither are able to overcome.

The _Hedgehog's Dilemma_ is cited by both Sigmund Freud and Arthur Schopenhauer to describe the state of individuals within relationships and social groups where despite the abundance of mutual goodwill, human intimacy does not progress without substantial mutual harm that, even should it be endured, often results in the contradictory aftereffect of timorous and overly-cautious behaviour serving to weaken and yield less fulfilling relationships.

 **[2]** **James' bear-** actually refers to William James (1842-1910), the American psychologist, physician, and philosopher and one of the namesakes of the _James-Lange Theory of Emotion_. In James' paper What is an Emotion?, 1884 and the groundbreaking two volume work Principles of Psychology, 1890 he epitomised the theory by contending allegorically that the commonly held belief about emotion, exemplified by fear, is that upon seeing a bear, we _fear it_ , and therefore _we run_ is completely wrong. Rather upon seeing a bear that if _we run_ , that therefore we become _afraid_ of the bear.

The _James-Lange Theory of Emotion_ has gained support in recent years from neuroscientific research and the work of Antonio Damasio. His _Somatic Marker Hypothesis_ postulates that the physiological changes that provoke us to run from danger in the first place are largely unconscious (heart rate changes, endocrine releases, muscle tone, facial expression, posture, and a myriad of senses and sensations including thermoception, equilibrioception, and chronoception). _Emotions_ (such as fear) and their perception (as _feelings_ ) are generated only thereafter in the brain that with the benefit of feedback (i.e. _interoceptive feedback_ ), particularly via the _peripheral nervous system_ , use somatic markers (i.e. bodily states) to serve as important guidance for decision-making and behaviour. In other words, emotions are _adaptive_ and necessary for learning to take action based on those lessons.

 **[3] aposematism** and **mimicry-** _Aposematism_ is a defense mechanism employed by numerous animal species that develop conspicuous colouring, patterns, sounds, or odours as a warning signal to potential predators. Its strategy is directed at preventing confrontations which like the seemingly self-contradictory strategy of _camouflaging_ is one of concealment of one's true nature. Both a _posematism_ and _mimicry_ rely upon a predator's ability to remember and learn from prior encounters with prey equipped with unpalatable, unprofitable, noxious, or deadly defenses which thereby avoids harm to the intended prey as well as predator.

 _Mimicry_ (Batesian and Müllerian* being the most prominent forms) is a strategy similar to _aposematism_ except that the conspicuous warning signals are purely meant to mislead predators since the species possess none of the actual protective measures they falsely advertise (*unless they _do_!). Both _aposematism_ and various forms of _mimicry_ are widely and prominently used by Lepidoptera, the order of insects that includes butterflies and moths with the best known example being the vomit-inducing Monarch butterfly and the Viceroy butterfly that mimics it. These adaptations and the subtle differences that differentiate species of butterflies is often what accounts for the greatest challenges, gratification, and enjoyment in the hobby of butterfly collecting.

 **[4] butterfly-** in ancient Greek the word for _butterfly_ is _psyche_ , which means _spirit_ or _soul_ i.e. the whole of the human mind and all its psychological processes (by which _psychology_ is the scientific study of the _psyche_ ). _Psyche_ also is the name of the star-crossed lover from the _original_ story of star-crossed lovers in the ancient Greek mythological story of _Psyche and Eros_ (translated as _Psyche and Cupid_ in Latin) who must learn to overcome countless obstacles to their love and marriage before finding ultimate happiness.

 **[5]** Although butterflies have become synonymous with change by virtue of their metamorphosis from lowly caterpillar (or _larvae_ ) to exalted butterfly, this most salient development in fact occurs even before they hatch from egg into larvae. Their brilliantly coloured and intricately patterned wings exist but remain masked and unseen, tucked within their bodies as _imaginal discs_ , hidden from view until they can be unfurled for use in their _imago_ or mature adult stage.


	3. Chapter 3: Jokester

**Chapter Three: Jokester**

I'VE SCARCELY returned to the outskirts of Port Wenn when I'm forced to come to an abrupt stop by a large flock of sheep crossing the road.

"Whoa there, Doc!" PC Penhale calls out presuming to direct traffic from the middle of the road. "Not to worry, I'll have this lot cleared out of your way, A-S-A-P. Sorry for all the bother."

"I'm sure you couldn't help yourself," I groan, punctuating my annoyance with a deep sigh.

It would seem that our village constable now presumes to preside over the the village's four-legged members of the _profanum vulgus_ **[1]** as much he does the insubordinate _two_ -legged ones.

"So, do we have some sort of emergency on our hands here, Doc?" he asks striding over to the window.

"No," I answer reluctantly.

"You know, we did have us quite the situation down at the pub last night where I definitely could'a used the backup," he says leaning down to peer into the car window.

"A medical complaint?"

"Not exactly. More like a 'how-bet'er-off-I'd'a-been-if-I-had-my- _wingman_ -there-with-me' problem."

"Whatever _are_ you talking about!"

"You know, the two of us, like: 'Alonso and Sancho', 'd'Artagnan and Athos', 'Romeo and Mercutio', 'Kirk and Spock', 'R2-D2 and C-3PO'… " he trails off. "You see Doc, there I was, all by myself, tryin' to reconnoiter with these two perfectly lovely ladies jus' sittin' there all by 'emselves," he gestures. "Now if I'd had my _wingman_ there with me, I could'a gone fully operational."

"You moron! I have better things to do– I will always, _until the end of time,_ have better things to do!"

"Oh no, not you, Doc. I was talkin' to my man _James_ here," he says with a wide grin that elicits an enthusiastic response from James within his car seat. "See, as each other's wingman, James and I would have made quite the impression with the ladies… well, at least 'til I was given _orders_ and duty called once again."

Exasperated, I insist he, "Just go away!"

"Yeah?! How'd _you_ know?!" he asks incredulously. "Anyway, then dispatch calls me on the radio with an urgent 9-9-9 report of a disturbance involvin' two women being accosted by some perp down in the pub… " he cocks his head in devout confusion, "which was weird; I mean, what are the chances, eh?"

"What are the chances you _lead_ these stupid sheep by example and get them _outtamyway_?"

"No can do, Doc. The law says livestock definitively has the right-of-way here. Well, I'm pretty sure that's what the law says… at least, I _think_ so."

"Mmm, try not to hurt yourself," I grumble.

" _You_ – always playin' the role of our heroic _Doc_!… Which I s'pose makes me– the _lovable_ trickster!" he says laughing and shaking his head effusively, "But seriously though… " he leans in further to add in hushed tones," it ain't like this lot here is known for their conative abilities, is it?"

"You imbecile! You mean their ' _cognitive_ ' abilities!"

"No, no, I'm pretty sure the word here is ' _conative_ ', Doc. You know, as in the third part of the actualized self which together with the cognitive and affective are formed once divested of false wrappings by the alchemic process of exposure to innately universal paradigms," he says flatly. "C'mon Doc, e'ery _fool_ knows what ' _cognitive_ ' means," he simpers, "well, at least I think _I know_."

"Er… umm… you're making me late!" I huff impatiently.

"Sorry, sorry, Doc. But rest assured on account of our 'special relationship' that in regards to that other matter: James Henry can always depend on his Uncle Joe to tend to his learnin' ev'rything there is to know 'bout women and guidin' him in the ways of bein' a _proper_ wingman. Ain't that right, James?" which James seems torefute as nonsense with a paroxysm of giggles– _presumably_ because James' extraocular muscles are not yet sufficiently developed to make a full rotation of the bulbus oculi within the orbita.

"See there, Doc… James' second opinion fully concurs with my prognosis," he wags his head in mock intelligence, "jus' like I'm always sayin', ' _laughter truly is the best medicine_ '."

"No. Laughter is extremely dangerous: it can have an appalling effect on the central nervous system leading to possible cataplexy; in the cardiovascular system it can induce a neural reflex response and increase intrathoracic pressure resulting in syncope; and in the respiratory system a serious rupture can result in spontaneous pneumothorax and a full-scale medical emergency; not to mention the all too common incidence of incontinence, herniation, and migraines." **[2]**

"Oh… " he flinches– as does James, "Well, it's like I said, that's what makes you ' _the Doc_ '! I mean, lucky for us… " he brightens, "but all jokes aside– jus' be glad it ain't like any of 'em really terrifying diseases that cause so many deaths, _not_ to mention fatalities, ev'ry year in this country like 'em ones you're always yellin' at folks about."

"You mean like _heart disease_?"

"No, actually, and _please_ don't get mad at me for tellin' you this, but... " he pauses to draw a long breath, "it's not heart disease, and it's not cancer, and it's not diabetes, and it's not stroke or any of 'em terrible things that you're always bangin' on about. It's _complications_ ; more people die in this country every year due to _complications_ than all of 'em other things– _put together_."

"Right," I let the word drip from my lips to a background of mindless bleating reminiscent of the collective inanity of the whingers and malingerers that try my patience on a daily basis.

"That's my advice, Doc: stay away from 'em _complications_ ," Penhale says puffing out his chest ridiculously. "That's how I stay so fit. Gotta be in my line of work. That's the reason when people think of yours truly, the first thing they think of is: _simple_. That's right, _simple as can be_. When it comes to c _omplications_ , Doc, do as I do– _jus' say no!_ "

Without suffering another moment's delay, I urge down on the accelerator after the last straggle of ewes and lambs have crossed the road to leave the image of Penhale and his woolly-kind to fade into the rear-view mirror.

 **…**

The car squeezes its way up the hill toward the surgery only to be impeded by a crowd overflowing Bert's restaurant. Such a commotion can only mean another impending incident involving Health Services. In this case however, my likely soon-to-be patients seem oddly eager at _entering_ the restaurant rather than _fleeing_ from it. Nonetheless, a solid honk on the car horn persuades them to part allowing us to pass, suggesting that they may, after all, have more sense than the average ruminant– usually a bad prospect for customers buying whatever Bert is selling since the idiot couldn't so much as give _ice_ away to the most idiotic of _eskimoes_.

We pull into the surgery where my pensive sigh reveals to James my apprehension for what awaits us inside. Louisa is sure to insist that we talk. James' eyes follow me uneasily as I open the door and walk around to scoop him from his car seat and proceed up the steps of the surgery.

"Oh, gawd," I moan loudly at the sight of Ruth's disgusting pest encamped on the step as if lying in wait for me. The pestilent village's four-legged collective swab of pathogenic contagion has come to contaminate me once and for all. I'm about to implore the loathsome beast to go away for good, when James seems to sense my rising disgust by emulating the tightening curl of my upper lip.

James studies the beast at my feet and then carefully examines me, alternating his intense scrutiny between the two of us until seeming to pose a question neither of us know how to put into words. Before long, the muscles of my upper lip slowly begin to relax. I gently stoop down holding James securely across the end of my knee until we are facing the animal together. My hand then extends, tentatively at first as if by another will, until it settles upon the canine's furry head. A moment's hesitation soon gives way to James' outstretched hand lightly resting upon mine when a voice, much like my own, soothingly utters, "Nice dog. Nice doggie."

 **to be continued… Next:** A confrontation with animal instincts

* * *

 **[1] profanum vulgus-** _common herd_ in Latin, a phrase popularised by the great classical Roman lyrical poet known as Horace. His eloquent and sublime works of poetry influenced the great poets from antiquity to the modern age including the deeply moving and heartwarming sentiment that gave this term its great renown:

 _odi profanum vulgus et arceo_

which translates colloquially as: "I hate the unholy rabble and avoid them at all cost"

 **[2]** R. E. Ferner, J. K. Aronson, "Laughter and MIRTH (Methodical Investigation of Risibility, Therapeutic and Harmful): narrative synthesis", BMJ [British Medical Journal] 2013;347:f7274, December 2013, is a comprehensive review of the medical literature of the last sixty-five years focusing on this insidious and oft not-so-silent killer known in the common parlance of non-medical professionals as 'funny'.

There have been refractory cases reported in the literature of chronically straight-faced sufferers that present with symptoms of adverse reactions with extremely low tolerance for risibility and acronymously known for their pathognomonic symptom for being unable to take a JOKE ( _Juxta-Orthofacioplegic_ _Kinesiological_ _Endotype_ )– notwithstanding conditions and their possible sequelae of ' _sick jokes_ '.


	4. Chapter 4: Inspiration

**Chapter 4: Inspiration**

"MARTIN?! JAMES? Are you there?"

"Yes, we're… here," I respond just as we turn from the landing to reveal a much disheveled Louisa propped up in our bed.

"Oh, there he is! James, how's Mummy's lit'le lamb? I've missed you so much!" she cries out, with her arms stretched out limply. "Oh, Martin, please bring James over to me here."

"Careful, Louisa, you are meant to be on bedrest."

I silently carry James to Louisa's arms who's already begun squealing jubilantly and fluttering his limbs in anticipation of being lavished with tender nuzzles and sweet snuggles. I watch them together like this as she fills him again and again full with life. As she does, she animates something in me that I might never have know was even there, if it were not for her. If not for this precious family she's made for us. Louisa sets James face-to-face in her lap and begins to sing one of her little songs to him– an utterly ridiculous, absurd, unrestrained, sweet, wonderful, beautiful little song she punctuates throughout with tender kisses at each count, all to James Henry's utter delight **[1]** :

" _Yahn_ _,_ _tayn_ _,_ _tether_ _-_

 _Daddy, Mum, and James;_

 _Kis-ses, kis-ses,_

 _All for James!_

 _Mether_ _,_ _mumph_ _,_ _hither_ _-_

 _then we count again:_

 _with_ _lither_ _,_ _auver_ _,_ _dauver_ _,_

' _til_ _dic_ _makes it ten!"_

"You like that, don't you? Yes!" Louisa beams to James Henry's enthusiastic giggles. "Shall we have more kisses for my sweet little lamb? Yes, we need more kisses, don't we?!":

" _Yahn_ _,_ _tayn_ _,_ _tether_ _-_

 _Daddy, Mum, and James;_

 _Kis-ses, kis-ses,_

 _All for you!_

 _Mether_ _,_ _mumph_ _,_ _hither_ _-_

 _then we count again:_

 _with_ _lither_ _,_ _auver_ _,_ _dauver_ _,_

' _til_ _dic_ _counts to ten!"_

 **[2]**

"Martin, you're staring," Louisa states once the laughter finally ebbs, eyeing me apprehensively whilst shifting James into her lap as best her patchwork of bandages will allow. "I _already_ know that I'm a complete mess, there's no need to examine me as if you're about to diagnose me for a _prolapsed_ **[3]** ponytail or somethin'."

"No," I say softly looking into her flawless face with hair wildly askew in rumpled old bedclothes and not a hint of makeup that unmasks feelings in me to overflowing, "No, you're beautiful, Louisa. Do you know that? Do you have any idea just how truly beautiful you are and how fortunate we are, James and I, because of you?"

" _What?!_ " Louisa shrieks in fright. "What's happened? What is it?! Oh my, you're in some sort of danger or, wait– someone's been taken hostage?! That's it, isn't it! Someone's watching you, right now, you've been threatened somehow and unless you say or do certain things you'll put yourself or– wait, someone else into some terrible danger. Oh, Martin, let me help! Tell me if it's not safe, let me know if it's _not_ safe by blinking hard three times! Please, Martin! Tell me by blinking for me!" she cries protectively clutching James to her chest.

"It's fine, Louisa. We're safe," I say as calmly as I can, intent to soothe Louisa's sudden acute agitation. "We're all perfectly safe."

"Wait– you're sure it's not another deranged patient having gone off their meds and taken hostages?! A stalker? Oh gawd, not another Mrs. Tishell?! Oh wait, it's one of Ruth's patients, and they're having a psychotic episode, aren't they?!" her queries growing more dire. "That's it, it's Aunt Ruth! Oh, Martin, something's happened to Aunt Ruth and she's _not safe_! We have to help her– that's what you're trying to tell me, _isn't it_?"

"Listen to me, Louisa, everyone is safe and no one is in any sort of danger– well… " my certainty wavers, "perhaps PC Penhale is a danger, but strictly speaking, _only_ to himself. But everyone _else_ , including Aunt Ruth, is perfectly fine and perfectly safe– at least she was when we left her about an hour ago."

She worries her lip momentarily before her eyes again grow wild, "Oh gawd, Martin! Your eyes just then as I was singing to James, they were glassy and you seemed almost to be trembling, I should've spotted it! You've been _drinking_ , haven't you?! That's it then! How could you, Martin?! How could you?" she pleads frantically before calming herself to ask solemnly, "Wait… you don't drink. You _never_ drink– do you? I mean, you haven't, have you– been _drinking_ , Martin?"

"No, I don't drink, you know that… " I attest. "Well, other than that one time… I mean– no, definitely not. I have _not_ been drinking, Louisa."

"No, sorry… Sorry, sorry, of course not. I still feel so groggy and my head feels funny, and I've been so tired, that's all," she explains rubbing her temples only to stop abruptly before shrieking, "Wait! It's that _global transient amnesia_ thingy, isn't it?! Like Joe's ex-wife! Oh, Martin, you've suffered a 'physically or emotionally stressful event' that's what's caused you to completely forget who you are! It's alright, it's gonna be alright, Martin, I promise. We love you and we're here for you and we're gonna take such good care of you–"

"Louisa, it's not _transient global amnesia_ and I'm perfectly lucid," I reassure her, " _probably_."

"But… " she starts to object before stopping to glance about at her surroundings and intently touching, holding, and grasping at James for consolation. "Me?! You're saying it's me?! But I'm not… I mean, I remember everything, it's all here– my memory's perfectly intact! I remember my name, it's Louisa'r, Louisa'r Ellingham– your wife. This is our son, James Henry. You are my husband, Doctor Martin Ellingham. We live in Port Wenn, this is our home. I just had an operation on my brain. Today's date is–"

"Shhh… " I reach over to tenderly brush the hair from her her eyes when she cups her face gently into my hand as I tell her. "You're fine, you're perfectly fine– I'm certain of it."

"Sure?" she asks, calm again– her eyes peering up at me which before long begin to carefully scan across my head as if scrutinising me for contusions or signs of concussion.

"Yes," I assure her again, tentatively extending my thumb from her cheek so as to examine her lower eyelid's conjunctiva and sclera before… "Harrumph… fine. You've just had a well-deserved rest and you'll start feeling better soon, you'll see," as I divert my thumb to tenderly stroke my beloved's cheek instead.

"I woke just before you and James came back and my head was feeling– _is_ feeling, so… fuzzy, everything is _muddled_ and I'm still having trouble making sense of everything. I do know that I still need time to think… about _us_ ," she says gravely. "That's all I wanted, you know _before_ , to go somewhere to give it a think and try to make some sense of it all so we can _talk_. I just wanted to go–"

"… to the Braddock Folk Festival!" I interject, clasping my hands together ebulliently. "We'll go and spend the whole day together at the Braddock Folk Festival– just the three of us!"

" _Wot?!_ "

"Yes! A... a _friend_ … my new _friend_ , Bill… Bill-something or other, he told me all about it– the Festival, that is. Let's do it– we'll go as soon as you're well enough. It'll be _fun_."

" _Mart-tin_?! You've just now used the words ' _friend_ ' and ' _fun_ '– non-ironically, in nearly the same sentence!" Louisa says, incredulous. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing. I just wanted for us to go, that's all," I say plainly. "They'll be music, lots of music… and singing too. We could go and sing; singing is good."

" _Sing?!_ So what– now you _sing_ as well as _dance_?!"

"No, not really. But _you_ could sing. You could sing one of those little songs you're always singing to James," I say into her sceptical eyes, "and me, well, I could do… something– _else!_ I thought you might like to do something together like that. It would be, so– _romantic_ , don't you think?"

"Wait, _romantic_? What do you mean by ' _romantic_ '? Like romantic-' _romantic_ ' and how other people think it means, or how you compared it to wasting away with an agonisingly fatal _disease_? Remember when Sam from that awful Oakwood family was sick with _tuberculosis_ and you couldn't stop carrying on about ' _very stupid people_ ' who called it the ' _romantic disease_ ' because suffering from tuberculosis was once considered to be the height of _romance_ – do you remember that, Martin?" **[4]**

"No! I mean 'yes', I do remember but, no, I didn't mean it like… well, I don't mean it like that– _now_ ," I demur. "What I meant was that it'll be you and me and James, the whole family, out together enjoying ourselves at the festival. Wouldn't that be… _nice_?"

"Hold on! How _exactly_ do you mean ' _nice_ '? Not like our last… well, our _first_ family outing, really– at the last 'Harbour Days', remember? People would smile at us as we passed by and you'd accost them to let you test their _gag reflex_ and then you'd insist on giving them a _tetanus jab_ , just in case!" **[5]**

"Umm… well– no, not like _that_. I was just thinking that after everything that's happened, it would be nice for us to do something, you know… _a change_."

" _A change_? Well, that would definitely be… Which speaking of a ' _change_ ', I was wondering… unless of course I'm still be dreaming or I've finally gone totally _bodmin_ … It's just that, I'd been up to use the loo just as you came home, and I saw'r– well, I thought I saw'r… I mean, I could have sworn that when I looked out the window… " Louisa takes a deep dilatory sigh, "Okay, here's the thing, Martin– I thought I saw you just then _petting_ Aunt Ruth's little dog, Buddy."

"Um… yes, I did– er, we _did_ ," I answer despite the impulse to deny it.

"You _did_?! Well, that's… " she says fluttering her eyes in disbelief. " _You,_ the dog, _you_ , _your_ hand? Hmm… You _actually_ did then? Well, if you wouldn't mind, Martin, because it would really help me to understand, could you please just tell me: _why?_ "

"I wanted to," I say outright.

Louisa stares long and blankly at me before she finally speaks again, "Oh… well, right… you, ' _wanted to_ '. That explains absolutely–" she winces as James shifts uncomfortably in her lap. "Would you– please, Martin… " she says offering me to take James but not before she plants additional kisses amongst his tufts of hair.

"Well, when I watched you through the window, my head was still swirling and I wasn't sure if it was still from the medication or what, and to tell the truth, and I was still feeling so confused about everything," Louisa continues as I settle James into my lap, "It's just that you _hate_ that dog– you've always hated that dog. Well, you've always _acted_ as if you hated it. Actually, you act as if you hate every dog, well, every animal, actually… Come to think of it, you act as if you hate just about _everyone_ and _everything_ … " she deliberates aloud as if engaged in an escalating row. "Maybe ' _hate_ ' isn't quite the right word, it's more like you find them _repugnant_ – animals and _people_ , that is. So why now instead of your usual repugnance, and hostility really, would you reach out to kindly _pet_ little Buddy? I mean, you not only petted this dog but you allowed James Henry to pet it as well, without a worry of being attacked or contaminated or whatever," she ponders before her gaze fixes on me. "So, tell me, Martin, why would you confront this dog now that, for whatever reason, you've always found so _repulsive_?" she asks cautiously.

"I… we… umm… _wanted to_ – like I said," I repeat. "We did wash up after, Louisa. I've not completely lost the plot."

"Hmm… " Louisa muses. "You know, Martin if you're just putting on a show or you're trying to get me more confused, then it's not going to– to… " she trails off.

"To what, darling?"

"See, that's what I mean! If this is just your idea'r of playing at some role or just putting up a façade and acting all _smarmy_ …" she pauses in mid-scold.

"I'm not," I gently protest.

"Mmm… " she hems. "Well, all this lying about in hospital, awake or asleep or mostly just trying to sleep, has kept my mind ruminating about certain things that I keep trying my best to understand.

"The thing is, I've never been one to deny that people in this village have their share of faults and are far from perfect including yours truly, I suppose," she gestures stiffly to herself. "But what I keep coming back to and what I really can't understand is the student's Sports Day and why you _harbour_ these feelings you have towards the _children_. You're _rude_ to _them_ no matter what!"

"They were rude first," I grumble.

"You know, Martin, that's what I'd expect to hear from my Year Three students having just been given _detention_." she says dismissively.

"Hmm, yes– _constriction of the pupils_."

"Wait… _what?!_ " she says distractedly.

"Umm… _miosis_ , it's part of the pupillary response used for assessing general physiology or certain pathologies, that's all."

"Oh, right… Sorry, for a moment there I thought you'd made some sort of _joke_ ," she says rubbing at her forehead still more bemused than amused, despite a very slight smile that appears. "Which _would be_ funny, considering that you tend to treat jokes as if they were _germs_ to be avoided. Although, I suppose I should be relieved that at least one of us is starting to sound more like themselves again."

"As if I might treat laughter as a serious public health issue because it's contagious," I say in a desiccated tone,"It was just something that Penhale suggested."

"Right… " Louisa remarks protractedly. "So, what was I going to say? Oh, the _children_ … and school Sports Day," I gulp heavily as she recalls this. "I'd thought before that our Sports Day would've been a great chance for you to reach the children– on your own terms and even perhaps, engage them and even interact with them… maybe?" she inquires inspiringly. "I thought you might actually get to know them, as themselves, and they could get to know you too– and maybe, just maybe, even the _real_ you," she flashes me her warmest of smiles.

James' reacts unselfconsciously to the display of his mother's smile, smiling happily himself, babbling and patting at his daddy's leg that he sits now attentively astride.

"So how was _that_ so terrible, Martin?" Louisa asks in a very different countenance. "The children weren't _rude_ to you, they were _children_! Or did you think the children were rude to you for seeking your acknowledgement and maybe even your praise for what they'd hoped to accomplish that day? Or did you think them rude for gathering to eagerly listen to _you_ , to learn from _you_? Or did you think them rude for wanting _you_ to share with them the importance of staying fit and maintaining good health? Or just for perhaps it was for wanting to interact with you? You had been able to at least share that much of yourself when the village gathered together to say goodbye with you at Aunt Joan's funeral, remember?"

"Mmm," I acknowledge guiltily.

"Believe it or not, the whole village truly admires you for your earnestness in your role as their doctor. It was that devotion and that way of caring about people that first attracted me to you. So when I first asked you to lead our Sports Day ceremony I was so pleased that you would not only be coming, but that you had _wanted_ to come. You said, 'Why shouldn't I want to come, Louisa? Shouldn't I want to instruct the children in the need for proper exercise and good health?' Which I thought was wonderful if it actually meant that you _wanted_ to do _anything_ beyond that castle-keep of your consulting room. It wasn't like I had to _convince_ you to do it or that I'd waited to ask you to do it only at the last minute.

"So in the end, it all became just too much for me to bear to watch you _flee_ again emotionally, that is. I do recognise now that when I'd first asked you about Sports Day that it was before your haemophobia had returned and your mother had turned up and definitely before you took such a turn from this– dark shadow that brought about this, this– _crisis_ , and I'm sorry for that, Martin. I'm sorry for this _crisis_ which, apparently, I wasn't able to divine any more than you were able to share with me anything about or anything about this struggle you were having with yourself."

I swallow solemnly as Louisa pauses to forlornly draw the blankets about herself.

"Thank you, Martin– again, for coming after me and saving my life, that much I'm sure of. You are _my hero_ , Martin– you've always been _my hero_. I've always known that I could depend on you, as strong and solid that can always be counted on to do his duty. But, I've also always known that you are much more than just that _rock_ I once compared you to. **[6]** Who _you_ are, Martin, is much more than any doctor or surgeon or medical practitioner, of _any_ kind, could ever be, no matter how brilliant or capable," she tells me animatedly. "Your identity, Martin, who _you_ really are is so much more than _that_ – and that is more than enough for James and me, _if only you would let it be_."

My son reaches up to my cheek splaying his perfectly formed fingers against my inert face to try to nudge, push, knead, and coax from it a new expression, _an_ expression– _any_ expression.

"I do understand, Martin, that it's been a lot for you to deal with," Louisa continues. "You were already at sea for the five minutes you had to learn to relate to us as a 'couple', remember our first date– Holly's concert? Then in barely five-minute intervals you had to learn to relate as fiancé and fiancée, as _lovers_ , then as one another's former betrothed, then as a father and a mother-to-be, then as father and mother to our son, then as co-inhabitants and co-parents, and only in the last five minutes as husband and wife. True, it was me, all of _me_ in every instance, the best and the worst, I suppose," she says resignedly. "But what truly frightens me now, more than anything, is you now relating to me as your _patient_ ," she pronounces despairingly. "It seems that I finally have the sort of relationship with the man I love that he _disdains_ more than _anything_ in the world– his _patient_."

"My ' _patient_ '?" I murmur. "That _can't_ be… "

I can't begin to tell Louisa just how wrong that can be, when she means everything to me, everything precious and vital, tender, unselfish, beautiful, and sanguine. I can't begin to express to her how much I'm truly prepared to do for her, to say to her, to keep from ever losing her, and to make each other happy for ever and ever. I can't begin to explain how I came to feel so lost these past few months after having found what I'd wanted my whole life. And I can't think how to begin to help Louisa understand that, somehow, _something_ has changed, that a veil has been lifted, and that all I deserve is right...

"...Now, of course, half this _bloody_ village will somehow believe that I got what I deserved," Louisa growls recoiling me back to attention, "as all these bandages are _somehow_ what I had coming for trying _somehow_ to change you in the first place. Meantime, the other _bloody-half_ believes I got what I deserved for _somehow_ letting you change me into this horrible bad-mannered shrill that chases after her husband and blowing her stupid whistle!" she complains bitterly, her days of confinement now beginning to weigh. "I wouldn't be surprised if they're drawing straws right now, _as we speak_ , preparing to dispatch their nosiest busybody for a wager on which one of us will be running away _this time_! Well, _bugger_ 'em all!" she fulminates. "Sometimes, this _whole bloody village_ … I could just scream!"

"Louisa, I can't–"

"... discuss your patients, I know, Martin. You _can't_ discuss your patients and now _I'm_ your _patient_ ," Louisa says defeatedly.

I stare back at Louisa in silence, unable to speak, unable to dispute this antinomy, unable to articulate my love and my feelings for Louisa, and now more cataplectic than ever despite wanting now more than ever to tell her, to say the right thing– to say _anything_. This deep welling of want is suddenly interrupted by a sharp rap at the front door. I hesitate only to gesture pitiably until turning to make my way downstairs with James. No sooner do we descend past the landing that another impatient rap on the door is followed by an exasperated cry from the bedroom, "Arghhhh!"

 **to be continued… Next:** A time for reflection

* * *

 **[1]** a lullaby sung in the common melody of Baa Baa Black Sheep.

 **[2] Yan, Tyan, Tethera,… Dic [underlined]:** the numbers 1, 2, 3,... 10 for counting sheep in early Cornish derived from Brythonic-Celtic languages and used as a traditional sheep counting-rhyming system. This vigesimal (numerical base twenty) counting system was designed for its lyrical form to simplify its learning and use by historically illiterate shepherds keeping constant count whilst watching over their flocks. Such counting systems have many variants particular to each region of Britain and was still in common use by shepherds into the early twentieth century.

 **[3] prolapse-** to fall or slip out of place

 **[4] tuberculosis-** this ancient deadly scourge became popularly known as the _romantic disease_ in the first half of the nineteenth century from the belief that it bestowed the sufferer with greater emotional arousal, enhanced sensitivity, and a redemptive and spiritual purity that came to define _Romanticism_ and the _Romantic Era_. The long, slow decline of those afflicted with active tuberculosis (also known as _consumption_ ) contributed to its mystique and allure for enabling a "good death" and popularised women's use of makeup to pale themselves in imitation of the so-called "consumptive look". The ideal of lovers' purity and temporal passions associated with tuberculosis was cultivated by the English literature of Byron, Shelley, Keats, and Coleridge, and has influenced modern beliefs of romance as has been depicted in literature, art, and film ever since.

Louisa refers to the episode Love Thy Neighbor when tuberculosis spreads to her new student Sam Oakwood. When Louisa had previously voiced concerns to Martin about another student with a measles-like rash, she receives a lecture about "very stupid" people abandoning reason for irrational feelings that dissuade them from taking proven vaccinations. Since placing feelings above reason is the essence of _Romanticism_ , Louisa might well then have endured such a lecture concerning 'romance'.

 **[5] tetanus-** the disease caused by bacterial infection of _Clostridum tetani_ that enters the body through a deep open wound as a spore that replicates rapidly to release a potent neurotoxin that causes severe muscle spasms in improperly immunised individuals. An early symptom of tetanus is the characteristic facial expression known as a _rictus grin_ or a _sardonic smile_. The standard diagnostic for suspected cases of infection is a simple medical spatula inserted into the individual's mouth that tests for either a healthy _gag reflex_ or biting down to indicate a positive result (hence the disease's alternate name, _lockjaw_ ). Since there is no blood test or other deterministic test, proper immunisation and periodic boosters with the tetanus vaccine are the best means for the disease's prevention (as depicted in the episode Remember Me).

 **[6] [Blackpool, Brighton] rock-** A long cylindrical " _stick of rock_ " of boiled sugar confectionery flavoured of peppermint or spearmint and available traditionally from holiday resorts in the UK. It is fashioned of several coloured flat layers that when rolled together prior to hardening spells out its identity throughout its entire length (typically the name of the resort where it originates).

In the episode Erotomania, Louisa likens Martin to a "stick of rock" and as "Doc Martin, through and through" when Martin reveals only another long medical recitation despite their both being thoroughly drunk. Although this metaphorical comparison may seem no more than the connotations for the common mineral 'rock' (strong, solid, and reliable) to those who have indulged in the thoroughly unhealthy sweet treat of _Brighton_ 'rock', its connotations are but predictable, uniform, stiff, uninspired, and unanimated. Yet it is only once Louisa begins to resign herself to just these meanings in spite of Martin's inebriation, does Martin finally unmask his true self and his true feelings.


End file.
